"God" read the word scrawled out unevenly on white in blunt penciled writing. "My nem is Ahmad" it continued. His fingers were barely large enough to even grasp a pencil properly. "I wud like to mit you".

His teacher moved from child to child with a waltz-like grace as she tended each innocent mind with an encouraging smile. Her pupils called her Miss Grace. She was young and hopeful, though she never really knew what she hoped for.

Ahmad waited for his turn. As a final touch, he added an ineligible scribble at the foot of his letter, mimicking the scribbles he'd seen adults do to pay for food at restaurants and clothes and things like that. His teacher looked busy.

Miss Grace loved her job. She was doing her kids a favour, saving them from the future, letting them grow like plants under her watchful eye. She talked to her plants often.

Ahmad looked up. Miss Grace stood over him, smiling - have you finished? Good - then crouched beside him. She asked him to read his letter. He read it.

"Oh, sweetheart, that's a lovely letter, but I don't think you will ever meet God. You can't even see him!" She smiled carefully. "Maybe you should write to someone who isn't so hard to find."

--------

Ahmad had just turned forty. He felt old. The young and hopeful days were far behind him, and he'd already forgotten what he used to hope for. He hadn't yet met God, but then again he'd never really tried looking.